


comment te dire adieu (il faut que tu m'expliques un peu mieux)

by milleseptcent



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Arsenal FC, Fluff, French National Team, Future Fic, I'll have to write about these two in the near future, M/M, Paris Saint-Germain F.C., but like soft angst so it's ok, i guess, listen I only tagged drax and kim as characters but there are so many, made some minor edits on the 18/10/2018, so many cameos you wouldn't believe, some Lacazette/Aubameyang if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 13:04:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16305737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milleseptcent/pseuds/milleseptcent
Summary: Julian leaves, and the world doesn’t come to an end, but for Presnel it certainly feels like it. He doesn’t let it show though, not when one of his teammates grumbles about how much they miss Julian, and not even when he’s talking to Julian over Facetime. And then Julian tells him that he’s in love with him.- for the prompt "things I never said until it was too late", and @kayhavertz's interpretation of it





	comment te dire adieu (il faut que tu m'expliques un peu mieux)

**Author's Note:**

> title from GLGV's remix of Comment te dire adieu by Françoise Hardy. it translates to _How to say goodbye to you (you have to explain it to me a little bit better)_
> 
> many thanks to Mavis without whom this fic could never have existed - this is but a small dent in the ever growing mountain of fics we have to write, but small steps, alright. my thanks also go to Meryam and Eliza for their re-reading!!
> 
> there are _a lot_ of cameos in there, which I didn't tag because who has time for that, but I put almost all of them in the end notes - if you find yourself lost and can't figure out who is being referred to at any point! also this takes place around 2020-2021, so I took some liberties with my interpretation of which players would play in which clubs and such

 

_Comment te dire adieu, comment te dire adieu_

_Même si je pars de Paname, je ne ferai aucun aveu_

_Je ne ferai aucun aveu_

 

_·····_

 

Julian leaves and it’s not the end of world.

At least, that’s what Presnel tells himself.

Leaving is what footballers do, after all. It doesn’t matter if they’re teammates, or best friends, or very nearly gods – they all leave in the end. Presnel has learnt the lesson time and time again, with Augustin, and Kingsley, and Zlatan, and countless others.

Presnel doesn’t quite know which of these three categories Julian fits, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that when Julian calls to share the news, his voice is giddy like Presnel had only heard him the few times he’d been designated to wear the captain’s armband for Germany. It doesn’t matter that for a few seconds everything spins into a blur around Presnel as Julian excitedly explains the details, the hows and whens of him leaving.

The only thing that matters is that this is not the first time Presnel has watched someone go, and every time he has picked himself up, puffed out his chest with pride, and worked harder, for his team, for Paris.

Presnel is used to this by now. Life goes on, new teammates come in, and Paris’ colors shine further.

 

·····

 

On the first day of training after the holidays, Presnel comes in earlier. He quietly peels off the picture of Julian he’d pinned to his locker and doesn’t look at the new name on the locker to his right as he gets into training gear. He goes outside to run a few laps, lets Tuchel slap him on the shoulder and congratulate him on his eagerness to get back to training.

By the time the others join him on the pitch, he’s worked himself into a sweat, and when Christopher asks him why he is shivering, he tells him it’s because of the chilly winter air, and definitely not because he feels a bit like his ribcage is caving in on itself.

“Are you trying to drown yourself in there?” Kylian hollers in the empty dressing room after training, and laughs when Presnel tells him to get lost from under the scalding hot stream of his shower. Presnel loves the kid, he really does, and he’s glad for him; he was great already when Adrien had fucked off to Spain last season, and he’s great now – even if his idea of emotional support involves throwing a towel in his face when he finally steps out.

They sing along to Presnel’s music as he gets dressed. _On est là pour faire danser tout Paname_ , they shout in unison, and then Presnel mutter along as Booba raps _Paris je t’aime, Zlatan est parti quand même_ , thankful that Kylian doesn’t ask about his song choice. They circle through the rest of the playlist until a staff member politely asks them to please leave now, which they do while cackling madly.

 

·····

 

Presnel still wears his colors with pride, as he has always done – though he wonders idly about dying his hair back to red as he watches Julian play. Julian looks good in red, and he looks even better with his hair drenched in sweat, curling over his forehead. Presnel had rarely seen him look like that in Paris, he muses. The minutes he’d gotten here and there had not been enough to melt his hair gel. Julian plays beautifully and Presnel cheers for him the first time he scores.

Julian FaceTimes him later that night, and Presnel’s heart clenches at his wide, happy smile. Julian corrects his pronunciation when Presnel congratulates him in German, and Presnel fakes a pout.

“Hey, I can’t help it if I’m out of practice.”

“You should practice with Thilo, then,” Julian snickers. Presnel doesn’t tell him that it’s not the same.

Hearing Julian laugh at his stupid jokes and the latest dressing room gossip feels right, even if the connection is a bit wonky and the crest on his heart does not match Presnel’s anymore. It ends too soon, Julian’s brow creasing as he says “Oh, wait, I’ve got another call incoming. It’s Mesut.” He smiles apologetically and Presnel waits until they’ve hung up to frown.

 

·····

 

There are videos popping up on his YouTube feed, Julian smiling professionally all over the thumbnails. Presnel doesn’t watch them, doesn’t want to see the interviews where Julian praises Arsenal and London, doesn’t want to know how much truth there is to the scripted words. He finds the silly videos harder to resist, though, Julian taunting him from where he’s sandwiched between Özil and Kolašinac on a red couch, the three of them laughing.

Once, he gives in and clicks. He finds himself staring at Julian’s delighted face, watching him talk in German, fast and loud like he almost never was with his PSG teammates. Presnel can barely catch a few sentences throughout the whole thing. One perplexing minute later, he closes the video, a weird feeling trickling down his chest. It’s probably Özil and Kolašinac’s unfamiliar accents that he found odd, he thinks to himself.

After that, he stops checking all of Arsenal’s social media altogether until the videos eventually stop showing up in his suggestions.

 

·····

 

The show goes on. They win most games, lose some others. _Paris est magique_ stands in proud letters in Parc des Princes, and as the weeks pass Presnel stops pausing to wonder why it wasn’t magical enough for Julian.

 

·····

 

Presnel watches Julian high-five Giroud when they play Germany during international break. It feels strange, but they’re teammates now, after all. But then Julian is running across the pitch, towards him, and all of a sudden he’s right there in Presnel’s arms. Presnel grins so hard that his cheeks hurt, taking in Julian, the warmth of him. He still wears the same cologne, he notices as he buries his face in Julian’s neck. 

“I missed you, babe, I missed you, so much, I missed you,” he says into Julian’s skin, repeats it over and over again until the words feel meaningless while Julian laughs madly, pressing himself closer against Presnel, arms squeezing him almost painfully tight.

Presnel's been fidgety about seeing Julian again, a weird mix of anxiety and excitement fizzling in his belly for the past few days. They call each other a lot, some weeks almost every day, but, well, Presnel does miss Julian in more ways than he can explain, ways that a phone call can’t really account for.

He knows Julian is thinking about it, too, at least in passing – two weeks ago, he’d asked: “So, have you convinced anyone else to make out with you in the dressing room yet?”

Presnel had laughed loudly, drowning out the sound of his racing heart and not thinking about about how the light in Julian’s eyes looked somewhat serious despite his light tone.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, huh?”

Julian had huffed through his nose, looked to the side, and finally said:

“Well, as long as it’s not Buffon,” to which Presnel had grimaced in exaggerated disgust, with complementary gagging sounds and the tension had dissolved into giggles.

But if Presnel is honest, no, he hasn’t so much as _tried_ to convince anyone to make out with him since Julian left. Not in the dressing room, and not anywhere else either, as a matter of fact. His friends have made it their duty to taunt him relentlessly about it, and Kylian sends him thoughtful stares from across the dressing room sometimes; all of which Presnel ignores. It's not like not sleeping with anyone for two months is even that weird, anyways.

And if Presnel’s body likes to remind him of how much exactly he misses Julian at the most unfortunate times – like when he’s on the verge of climax and suddenly all he can think of are freckles-covered shoulders and defined biceps and those deep, deep eyes, or when his dreams have him waking up painfully hard and vaguely sad. Well, nobody needs to know about those things at all.

In the end, Julian wraps an arm around Presnel’s waist as soon as he releases him from his hug, and he drags him to the tunnel, pushing Presnel against a wall as soon as they turn a corner. They kiss until Julian’s lips are red and swollen and Presnel’s heart feels raw, until Deschamps’ voice echoes in the tunnel, wondering loudly where his number 3 is. They jump apart, eyes wide. Julian whispers frantically:

“Presko, we’re in Paris, I can come to yours, after, yeah? You still live in the same place?”

Presnel shakes his head.

“Babe, you know we can’t.” International break means staying at Clairefontaine, and Julian probably can’t disappear so easily from his own team’s hotel.

Julian frowns, opens his mouth, a question on his tongue, but then footsteps come closer and Presnel pecks Julian’s lips one last time before stepping away and hurrying to the main corridor.

“Oh, hello coach. Fancy meeting you there,” he says nonchalantly with a shit-eating grin and the vague hope that Deschamps is annoyed enough at his antics to not think about asking where he’d just come from.

When he opens the door to the home dressing room, he barely notices the jeers and the eyerolls from his teammates. He scrolls down his contact list to _Babe_ and types out quickly:

 

_FaceTime tomorrow morning?_

 

Then he closes the messaging app and switches to Spotify, yelling out to whoever is currently playing music to leave the real French MC show them how it's really done.

The message goes unanswered. Julian doesn’t call the next day.

 

·····

 

When he finally calls, two days later, Presnel asks if there’s anything wrong. 

“Nah, it’s just, international break. You know how it is.”

And Presnel knows, he does, about the tight schedules, the necessary team-bonding time, but he can’t stop thinking about Julian’s creased eyebrows and dejected eyes back in the Stade de France tunnel. But Julian switches topics and Presnel forgets about it.

Except he doesn’t, not really, because Julian makes himself scarce, after that. He still calls, but less often – once a week, sometimes less. He’s got excuses, every time: it’s a busy week at training, they’re travelling, it was Bernd’s birthday party, and Presnel feels stupid when he tries to call him out on it.

But he misses it, misses hearing all about Julian’s life in London. He refreshes his Instagram and there Julian is, in unfamiliar places, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, and an hour a week just isn’t enough to catch up on every little detail Presnel wants to know about. Most of all, he misses Julian’s voice and laugh, even misses hearing him breathe on the line while they’re both occupying themselves with something else, enjoying the other’s quiet presence over the phone.

Presnel toys with the idea of texting Giroud to ask if something is up, but then he decides that the last thing he needs is him telling Kylian and Areola and the three of them teaming up to tease him.

 

·····

 

So he doesn’t say anything, until one day in April. He’s laying in bed, scrolling bleary-eyed through his phone and silently cursing morning practice, when suddenly his heart drops in his chest and he’s sitting up urgently. There, between Twitter notifications and a missed call from his mother, is a message from Julian. A rather unusual one, in fact.

 

 _Babe 3:23 AM_ – _Je t’aime_

 

He opens the notification, his heart beating madly in his ears, and stares in uncertainty at the little bubble. He scrolls back up the conversation, checking previous texts, but there’s nothing that could have prompted such an answer. The offending message stares at him from underneath a screenshot of a tweet and an overly zoomed-in picture of Julian’s face. 

He bites his lip, then shoves his phone under his pillow and only comes to get it when he’s running out of the house, late for practice already.

The next day, he calls Julian and avoids the topic until he can’t anymore. He finds himself asking as innocently as possible.

“So, what was up the other night, with that text?”

Presnel watches Julian’s slightly pixelated face intently, sees him freeze and smile hesitantly.

“Ah. That. I’m, huh, I’m sorry about that. We were playing Olivier’s game, you know, Picolo?” And of course Presnel knows, he’d been the one to introduce him to the app in the first place. He nods. “It was a bet, I had to send that text to someone, and Laca said it had to be you, and, well.”

“Oh.” Presnel laughs weakly. “Well, don’t be sorry. _Je t’aime aussi_ , you know.”

Julian laughs as well, and then launches in the story of how Lacazette had ended up thoroughly trashed and doing a lap dance for Aubameyang, and the image is horrifying enough to hold Presnel’s attention until the end of the call.

But once they’ve hung up, the thought of Julian’s laugh gleaming with the light of his phone as he types out the message is plastered all over his mind, overwriting crushed fantasies of Julian’s thumb hovering in hesitation over the _Send_ button. Presnel forces himself to forget how he’d imagined Julian smile to be, shy but determined, and thinks instead of drunk teammates hollering out his own name.

He hadn’t even known that Julian and Lacazette were close at all.

 

·····

 

By the time July rolls around, Presnel has gotten used to the transfer. He’s stopped moping, even when Thiago bitches about how Draxler used to always have spare tape to lend him and the rest of them really are useless, nor does he when Kurzawa shows them videos of Julian inhaling his food in the Arsenal cafeteria – alright, maybe he mopes _a bit_ at that one, gloomily thing his laces, but he shakes himself out of it soon enough when Nkunku slaps him on the shoulder and asks if he wants to go for a game of FIFA.

Julian still features as a regular guest in his fantasies, but, well. Their arrangement of make out sessions and practical orgasms in dressing rooms and hotel beds had lasted for almost two years before Julian left. It _is_ annoying that Presnel’s body hasn’t yet caught the memo that it’s unlikely to ever happen again, but what can he do.

“You should really let it all go, man. I mean, the memories of him. You can’t move on if you keep talking about him all the time,” Kingsley says to him when he’s in Paris for a few days, sharing a joint on Presnel’s balcony, and Presnel is talking about Julian. Presnel ignores him. Kingsley's always had a tendency to spout dumb fake-deep stuff when he’s high. He doesn’t need to _let go_ or _move on_.

They play Arsenal at the International Champion’s Cup and Presnel can't keep a stupid grin off his face when Julian turns around to catch his eye and smile at him as the teams line up in two columns of red and white in the tunnel of the Arsenal Stadium. Julian smiles again, broadly, when they shake hands, pulls him in a short hug, and then his usual look of in-game concentration takes over his face.

He’s still wearing the same look, forehead creased and lips thinned, when he barrels into Diarra at top speed, both of them trying to get to the ball ahead. They fall to the ground, Diarra getting up immediately while Julian stays down, hands cradling the side of his head.

There’s the sharp blow of the whistle and before he can think about it, Presnel is sprinting up the pitch, his jersey white in the swarm of red that gathers around Julian. Kolašinac raises an eyebrow when he falls to his knees next to Julian to listen in to the medics. One of them is talking to Giroud, who is frowning as he readjusts the armband on his bicep.

“ _Was ist los?_ ” Presnel asks Özil, who probably understands more of the medic’s English than Presnel does, if his serious nodding is anything to go by. Özil looks surprised, but answers in curt German that Julian is most likely not concussed – and yes, Presnel knows the German word for concussed, had learnt it just in case Julian bumped his head and could not remember how to speak French. Julian is going to be subbed off just to be safe, though, Özil adds.

Presnel thanks him, and vaguely registers Özil, Kolašinac and Giroud exchanging looks, but he doesn’t really care, because Julian’s just turned his head towards him and he’s smiling.

“Ok, babe?” He asks, taking his hand to pull him up gently when Julian nods. He brushes his hand along Julian’s cheek where bits of grass have stuck, and gives him one last smile before one of the medics props Julian up against him and walks him to the bench.

Giroud slaps Presnel’s shoulder with an exasperated smile. “What,” Presnel asks over his shoulder. “Nothing. Get back in position, Presko,” Olivier answers, and Presnel goes, his focus back on the game.

The second half ends twenty minutes later on a tense draw, and Presnel rushes through a shower, then bounces his knee restlessly while Tuchel lectures them on the points they need to work on before the next game. When Kylian groans that he’s already tired at the mere thought, making Neymar snickers and the coach roll his eyes, Presnel takes the opportunity to quietly make his escape from the dressing room.

After only a few minor detours through the stadium’s corridors, he reaches the home dressing room, still bustling with activity, and he barges in with a smile and not much else in terms of plan or authorization. Lacazette is standing next to the door and spots him first.

“Presnel Kimpembe!” He bellows, a wide smile on his face, stretching out the vowels theatrically, and well, if anyone hadn’t noticed his enter yet, that’s taken care of. He pulls Presnel in a one-armed hug, and then Presnel shakes Aubameyang’s hand and nods at Koscielny before hugging Olivier who’s come over from the other side of the room, dressed in boxers and one sock.

“What are you doing here, my man?” Giroud asks.

“Coming to check on Drax.”

Olivier sighs: “And here I was, thinking you were here for me and my beautiful eyes… You wound me.”

“Oh, Olivier. You know that I would never do anything to come between you and Debuch.”

Lacazette cackles and Presnel grins, ducking as Olivier tries to swat at him with the sweaty jersey he’s holding. Kolašinac smirks and Özil shakes his head as Presnel sends a two-fingered salute their way. He’s about to whip out his German skills to asks where Julian is when suddenly two arms embrace him.

Presnel shivers as Julian says “I thought I heard your voice”, his breath hot on his neck, and turns around to greet him in a proper hug. Julian is warm from his shower and his hair is wet, dripping a little bit on his clothing, but he doesn’t mind.

“You heard Laca’s voice, rather, didn’t you.”

Lacazette yells “Hey!” while Aubameyang laughs, and they bicker some more until Welbeck interrupts loudly: “What is this, the French invasion?” and the whole room dissolves into snickers and whoops of approval.

Presnel rolls his eyes, tells Julian he has to go get his bag, and doesn’t ask if Julian would like to come before he slings one arm around his waist and drags him outside, shouting “Goodbye, au revoir, auf wiedersehen!”. Julian laughs in his shoulder and Presnel feels like he’s just won the Coupe de la Ligue and the Champion’s League all at the same time.

“Look who I’ve stolen from the Reds!” Presnel says as they enter the nearly-empty PSG dressing room. He makes a beeline for his bag while Julian gets jumped by players in various state of dress.

“How did you manage to sneak him out?” Cavani asks.

“Well, he came willingly. He’s all mine tonight,” Presnel preens, ignoring Kylian and Kurzawa's wolf-whistles from the other side of the room.

Presnel sorts through his bag, smiling to himself as he listens to his teammates and Julian’s excited discussions.

By the time they leave the dressing room with one last hug from Verratti, a slap on the shoulder from Diarra and Presnel’s express orders to tell Tuchel he’ll be back in time for the team meeting tomorrow, Julian has a wide, happy smile on his face. Presnel can’t help but smile as well, wrapping his arm around Julian’s waist again and letting him lead them to his car.

“Where are we going?” Presnel asks. “I’ve never been to London.”

“That’s a lie. We’ve been there together to play Tottenham.”

“You know what I mean. I’ve never visited London. Much less with an actual Londoner to show me around.”

“Hah, I’m hardly a Londoner.”

“Come on, you live here. London's your hood now.”

“I’ve only been there for five months. I don’t really know the city.” Julian looks at Presnel in the rear view mirror. “I’m still more Paris than I’ll ever be London, you know.”

Presnel swallows back a bitter answer that Julian can claim all he wants that his heart shines bright like the Eiffel tower, it's not like the light can reach Presnel all the way across the English Channel. Instead, he fiddles with the radio until he finds a hip-hop station.

“Why did you come to our dressing room?” Julian asks once he's driven out of the parking lot.

“I wanted to check on you. You should've seen the bump on Lass's head! He was worried. I was,too. Are you okay, now?”

“I don’t know, it still hurts. And I’m tired, I guess.”

“We're going to your house, then.” Presnel's tone is definitive.

“I mean, we could go see the city.”

“The team meeting is tomorrow afternoon. We can go play tourists in the morning. You’re going to bed early tonight.”

Julian huffs through his nose, but he’s smiling, and Presnel smiles as well.

“Should I drive you back to your hotel, then, and we can meet in the morning?”

Presnel looks at him.

“What? No, I thought I was spending the evening with you, well, except if you don’t want me –”

“No, no, but you – it doesn’t matter.”

“What?” Julian doesn’t answer, and Presnel prods. “Are you alright, babe?”

“Yeah, don’t worry. Just, tired, you know,” and he laughs weakly.

Presnel frowns and looks at him, feeling like he’s missing something but not really knowing what. Julian drives them to a calm neighbourhood on the outskirts of the town, staying quiet during the whole ride as Presnel chatters idly – he must really be more tired from the game and his injury than previously let on.

When he pulls into his driveway, he cuts the gas and then doesn’t move for a moment. Presnel goes silent and watches him quizzically in the darkness of the car, the angles of Julian’s face only illuminated by the car’s dashboard.

Slowly, like the moment is suspended in time, Presnel raises his hand and puts it over Julian’s on the brake. And just like that, Julian is set into motion again, leaning over and kissing Presnel lightly, close mouthed, one hand coming to rest on Presnel’s lap. Presnel entangles their fingers and kisses back. They walk to the house hand in hand, and Julian pulls Presnel towards him in another kiss as soon as the door closes behind them, still weirdly gentle.

They end up making out on Julian’s couch, slow and soft, shoes and jeans discarded to leave them only in their t-shirt and boxers. Julian has a bump on his temple that makes him grimace when he pulls off his sweater and Presnel is careful to avoid it as he kisses his cheekbones and caresses his hair – soft and curling lightly without Julian’s usual hair gel. Julian’s hands are warm on Presnel’s back, underneath his shirt, playing lazily with the waistband of his boxers, and Presnel can feel that he’s hard underneath him but he seems content to just lay there and keep kissing him deeply and unhurriedly, his breathing even. Julian’s arms feel like forever as Presnel breathes him in, mapping the lines of his jaw and dropping kisses along the bridge of his nose. It's – unusual, but good. Amazing, even.

After a while, Presnel snakes one hand down between them. His fingers tickle Julian’s belly, making him shiver, and Presnel laughs a little bit at that before pulling down their underwear so he can take both of their erections in his hand. It’s dark, they haven’t turned on any light, but Presnel can make out Julian’s face in the yellow light of the street lamps outside the window, and he watches Julian as he comes undone, commits to memory his half-lidded eyes, the blush high across his cheeks.

Julian's hips stutter erratically from where he's pressed under Presnel as he moans Presnel’s name over and over. Presnel runs a thumb over the head of his cock, and suddenly Julian cries out brokenly, closing his eyes as he comes over his chest and Presnel’s hand.

Presnel feels like saying something stupid as Julian comes down from his orgasm, breathing hard and moaning softly. He wants to turn his jokes serious for once, tattoo the words he usually says in passing along Julian’s collarbones. Instead, he presses messy, breathless kisses in the crook of Julian’s neck, muffling the bits of sentences he can’t quite keep down, and says his name as he comes, too.

He collapses on Julian, feels the heavy blanket of sleep drop on him, but he resists it. When he feels a bit less shaky, he tugs Julian up.

“Come on to bed, then, babe. You need the rest.”

Julian vaguely shows him the direction of the bathroom and they both get cleaned up. Presnel coaxes Julian into brushing his teeth between two yawns, and then they’re slipping under Julian’s sheets. The bed smells of Julian, and Presnel has got him cuddled against him, warm and sleepy, and suddenly he feels incredibly, inexplicably lucky.

“We’re waking up early tomorrow,” Julian says in Presnel’s chest. “You wanted to see the city.”

“Alright, babe,” Presnel answers soothingly, not even pretending to move to set an alarm. He doesn’t much care about the city at all when he could have a lay in with Julian. “I’ll make you breakfast.”

Julian snorts, raising his head to look at him. “You can’t cook, Presko.”

“Hey, maybe I’ve learnt!”

“I’ll have you for breakfast,” Julian mumbles, a laugh in his voice, and Presnel pretends his heart doesn’t skip a beat.

“I could fuck you tomorrow morning, babe, you’d like that?” Julian shifts against him.

“Huh. I would but, hah. I haven’t prepped.”

“Oh.” Presnel hesitates. “But, you knew I was going to be here, yeah? I mean, it’s fine if you don’t want to...”

Julian cuts him off. “I want it. But. Well, I thought, I thought you wouldn’t. I didn’t think you’d want to do this again.”

Presnel frowns, opens his mouth, speechless.

“Babe. What? Wait, is it what you were saying earlier in the car?”

Julian sighs. “It’s just. It’s stupid, but, at international break? I thought – I thought that was your way of telling me you, well, you didn’t want to do this anymore.”

“What?” Presnel says again, brightly.

“You told me we couldn’t...”

“Yes? I had to go back to Clairefontaine?”

“Oh.”

“Is that why you didn’t call, afterwards?”

“Maybe,” Julian says, burying his face in Presnel’s shoulder.

“I thought something was wrong! I almost texted Giroud to ask about you!”

“Well, I was… I was sad, alright,” Julian mumbles and Presnel huffs a laugh through his nose. He tugs Julian up and kisses him softly, once, twice.

“My Julian. _Mon amour_ ,” he says against his mouth, and that’s as close as he can get to the words buzzing inside his chest. He feels Julian smiling on his lips, and then settle back against him for the night.

For now, that’s enough.

 

·····

 

Presnel’s phone rings with a call from Julian almost as soon as he steps foot into his home the next night. It’s unusual – they’d just seen each other this morning, after all. But, it’s not like he’s going to pass on it, and he takes the call.

“Hey babe, what’s up?”

“Presnel. Did you make it home alright?”

“Yeah, I just arrived. You had a good day at training?”

“Good, good." He sounds distracted. "Presko…” Julian draws in a breath. “I need to tell you something.”

“Go for it,” Presnel says, opening his fridge and grimacing at the lack of anything fun in it. Julian’s silence is long enough for him to close the fridge and open his snacks cupboard. “Julian?” He asks.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. Presnel, huh, I. I think I’m in love with you”

Presnel drops the biscuits he’d just grabbed, bumping his head on the cupboard door as he straightens abruptly.

“What?” Presnel asks, rubbing absently at the bump he can already feel forming on top of his head.

“I think I’m in love with you” There’s a touch of desperation to his words. Presnel looks at his phone, dumbfounded, for a moment, before a doubt sneaks in his mind.

“If this is another bet, it’s not funny,” he says. He wants to laugh about it, to say it as a joke, but his voice feels faint under the roaring of his heartbeat.

Presnel’s hand clenches as he imagines a group of vicious teammates around Julian. He can only picture it too well, he’s sure of it, now. Julian hasn’t turned on his camera like they usually do, and there’s something weird about the way he speaks, like he’s trying to rush through his words. He clenches his teeth and when Julian doesn’t answer, he repeats: “Really not funny. Enjoy your night, Jule,” and then hangs up, ignoring Julian’s hurried “Wait!”

He looks at the biscuits and puts them back in the cupboard. He’s not hungry anymore.

 

·····

 

Julian leaves and it's not the end of the world, it's really not.

The end of the world happens five months and twelve days after Julian leaves. Presnel asks himself if he's in love with Julian, and finds that the answer is very probably yes. Well, love is a big word, but he knows he wants more of the way Julian’s eyes had crinkled in a smile when he’d woken up pressed against him, more of the warmth of Julian’s hand in his as they’d walked the London streets, more of the electric joy that had rushed through his chest when Julian had told him the words over the phone.

They’d woken up late to morning sex and had brunch in a small coffee shop (because Presnel has definitely not learnt how to cook) and despite London’s timid grey sun, Presnel had felt like summer blooming in his chest, sunny with delight. In hindsight, yes, maybe that was the kind of things people usually did with girlfriends. But Presnel can’t be blamed for not remembering that, can he, since he hasn’t had a serious relationship since he’s begun sleeping with Julian.

Maybe he should have seen it coming.

So Presnel does what one does when the world comes crashing down: he calls a friend. Namely, he calls Blaise – Kylian is too young, Adrien would laugh at him, Kurzawa wouldn’t understand. He clicks on Blaise’s number with slightly trembling fingers, and proceeds to spend the next ten minutes explaining to a surprised Matuidi that he might like, like _like_ Julian, yes, Julian Draxler, and that yes, it is a problem, because no, Julian and him aren’t together.

“You two did an awful lot of disappearing together after training for just friends,” Blaise tuts dubiously.

Presnel stutters indignantly that they’re friends with benefits, and when Matuidi insists the correct word is boyfriends, Presnel has to ask him to please stop with that word because he already has trouble wrapping his head around the fact that maybe he likes Julian, and here he is feeling as if Blaise is planning their wedding or something. Incidentally, he also gets the feeling that Blaise is not the only one as Blaise suddenly whispers: “Shit. I owe Sam _so much money_.”

Presnel pauses.

“Blaise,” he says into the phone, feeling ready to break in hysterics. “Do you and the rest have a bet going about me and Julian?”

There’s a few seconds of silence, and then: “Would you be mad if we did?"

Presnel hangs up. 

Making a note to himself to never, ever call Matuidi for any kind of help, he searches for Umtiti’s number. Sam laughs loudly at Presnel’s complaining, doesn’t apologize, and even preens a little bit about the fact _he was right_ and _he’s going to get so rich_.

“You’re already filthy rich,” Presnel mutters in the phone, “I’ve heard the rumors about how much they pay you at Barça,” and Sam laughs again.

In the end, he still needles Presnel into telling him everything, about Julian’s call and Lacazette’s bet. Umtiti chuckles at the mention of his teammate from his Olympique Lyonnais days.

“Oh, so Laca thinks he’s in a position to make bets about other people’s love life. That’s rich. I’ll have to give him a call, we have some things to discuss, him and I.”

Usually, Presnel would be interested in the gossip, but the last thing on his mind right now is Alexandre Lacazette’s hopeless crush on Aubameyang. He makes a noise of impatience, which gets Samuel back on the topic at hand, namely scolding him.

“Come on, Presko. You’ve called each other every week since he left. He told you he loved you, twice now. What more do you need?”

Presnel thinks about it, long and hard, chewing on a biscuit – he’d gone and got them as he waited for Sam to finish laughing himself silly. He feels like the answer might be something like _courage_ , or _self-assurance_ , but when had Presnel Kimpembe ever lacked any of these two things? Samuel waits patiently while Presnel works it out.

“I don’t know,” Presnel finally says.

“There you go. Come on, London is, what, one hour away from Paris? You can see him every weekend. You’re rich, you’re young, you can make this work.”

Presnel rolls his eyes, and he can hear Samuel smile from the other side of the line.

 

·····

 

The next morning, Presnel does what one really should do when the world comes crashing down: he addresses the cause, and tries to build it up again. It’s early – Presnel couldn’t really sleep, but when he calls Julian, he gets an answer immediately. 

“Yes?” Julian says in the phone, sounding breathless.

“Huh, hey,” Presnel says awkwardly.

“Hello. Is it about my call from earlier?”

“Yeah. Can we turn on the camera, please?”

Julian acquiesces and a few seconds later, he appears on Presnel’s screen. His mouth is tight at the corner and his eyes nervous, but he’s at home, alone, which, good.

“Hey, what’s that?” Presnel asks, noticing a piece of paper clenched in Julian’s hand. Julian immediately shoves it behind him.

“Nothing. Notes.”

“Notes?”

Julian groans.

“Okay, don’t laugh at me," he says, and despite the situation, Presnel smiles a little, because this is Julian, his best friend, and how could he be scared. Julian takes a deep breath. “So, yesterday, Héctor, you know my teammate, Héctor Bellerín?” Presnel nods, trying not to frown at the mention of meddling teammates. He’s had enough of Arsenal players coming between Julian and him for the rest of his life, he thinks.

Julian continues: “Well, earlier in the year he insisted we have a referent in the team, who we could go to in case of, like, bullying, discriminations, that stuff. And, well, of course it had to be him.”

“Okay? That's nice, but what does that have to do with anything – wait,” Presnel raises his eyebrows in alarm. “Were you bullied?”

“No, not really but – okay, so, the lads kept, huh. Talking about you.”

“About me?"

“Well, talking about how I always talk about you. And teasing me, calling you my… my boyfriend.” And oh, Julian is not going to like what Presnel has found out about PSG and French national team gossip, Presnel thinks distantly. “And yesterday they were all over it, because, you know, we left together and all, and so Héctor went to ask me if I needed to talk about it, and huh, he, kinda told me to get my shit together. And to call you and tell you… Things. And he made me do bullet points. Of what I had to tell you.”

 “Wait. So. Earlier. It wasn’t a bet?”

“I tried to explain but you wouldn’t let me!” Julian straightens up, looks straight into the camera. “You believe me now?”

“I guess… I guess I do,” Presnel says, feeling a bit breathless, and then something occurs to him. “But you’re telling me, you needed a list of bullet points to tell me you love me?”

He tries very, very hard not to laugh, but it’s just so _Julian_ that he can’t help but smile wide.

“Shut up! This is what I meant, you’re laughing at me.”

“I’m not laughing at you! I think it’s cute.”

Julian huffs, a pout on his face, and Presnel smiles, almost giddy, not quite realizing the fact that this man, this man _right there,_ loves him. He opens his mouth and says the only thing going through his mind: “I really want to kiss you right now,” and when he looks back at the screen Julian is blushing.

“Well. When can you come to London?”

 

·····

 

The next time they play Arsenal, Presnel walks on the pitch with his head high, the captain’s armband on his bicep, and a plan at the back of his mind. 

He manages to sneak off before the game, meeting Julian in their old makeout spot in the corridors of Parc des Princes. It feels both nostalgic and exhilarating, to fist his hands in Julian’s Arsenal jersey in this stadium that feels like home while he kisses him. Julian’s hand is warm where it is resting on his bicep, closed around the armband, lightly caressing it, and Presnel can’t help but smile into the kiss.

When he comes back to the dressing room, Tuchel begins the pre-game speech, announcing “I know this game is important to Presnel, in more ways than one,” and Presnel pretends he doesn’t know what his teammates knowing laughs mean, a smile creeping on his face.

After the game, he runs straight into Julian’s arms, and then takes off his jersey, gesturing at Julian to do the same. Julian raises an eyebrow at his mischievous smile, but he does it. Of course, Presnel knows he already has a collection of Kimpembe jerseys at home, but one more can’t hurt.

They smile for the cameras, Presnel’s arm around Julian’s waist, until Giroud comes up to them with a big smirk on his face, covering his mouth as he tells them that Julian should really consider putting on the Kimpembe jersey, because that huge hickey on his collarbone does not really match the away kit color theme. Julian’s eyes widen in horror and he looks at Presnel.

“You did it all on purpose!”

Presnel cackles, leaning on Olivier.

 “Don’t worry, babe. I’ll add more later. I’ve seen how you look at me with the armband on.”

 Olivier crinkles his nose.

“You two are just as bad as Lacazette and Auba. I don’t want to hear anymore.”

Presnel laughs some more and watches Julian hurriedly put on the jersey. His heart skips a beat as Julian looks at him sulkily, adjusting the neckline of the jersey to cover the hickey. The image of the man he’d fallen in love with hits Presnel suddenly, the German boy in a PSG jersey, shining under the Parc des Princes lights.

But Julian turns around to head towards the tunnel, _Kimpembe_ displayed proudly across his back, and the memory dissipates, solidifies into the man Presnel is in love with – the star Arsenal player that the English press can’t shut up about.

That’s the man he hurries after, his mind already on his promise of adding on to his hickey collection.

 

**Author's Note:**

>  ** _list of cameos_**  
>  \- **from PSG** : Kylian Mbappé, Neymar Jr, Marco Verratti, Alphonse Areola, Christopher Nkunku, Edinson Cavani, Lassana Diarra, Layvin Kurzawa + Thomas Tuchel  
> \- **from Arsenal** : Olivier Giroud (yes he's back at Arsenal, and I also gave him the armband, because I do what I want), Mesut Özil, Sead Kolašinac, Alexandre Lacazette, Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang, Héctor Bellerín  
> \- **from the french national team** : Blaise Matuidi, Samuel Umtiti + Didier Deschamps
> 
> an early version of the fic had all of the meddling teammates from psg, afc and the french nt come together in a group chat, but it was a boring read (even though it was fun as hell to write), so I deleted it 
> 
> in another early version, Kanté was at PSG and Hazard in Spain. who even plays at Chelsea anymore in 2021, you might ask? I do not know nor care
> 
> PLEASE leave comments, I thrive off them. theres so little draxlembe fic we might as well all get to know each other. also this is not properly beta-ed and English isn't my first language so if you'd like to beta me I'll be the happiest author!!
> 
> find me on tumblr @sombrebail if you'd like to throw draxlembe or french nt prompts my way!


End file.
